


Old Fashioneds and Assignations

by HawthorneWhisperer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9618398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthorneWhisperer/pseuds/HawthorneWhisperer
Summary: Clarke and Bellamy get lonely while on separate business trips.Sex stuff happens.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's honestly nothing more than what it says on the tin.
> 
> Smut with a side of angst.

Clarke slid onto the barstool and straightened her dress.  The slit went up just a little too high on her thigh for a charity function, but that was over and done with and anyway, she didn’t give a shit.  All that was left was going up to her hotel room, and she just couldn’t bring herself to do that.

When things ended with Finn she craved solace.  She hid from everyone; spent weeks barely speaking to anyone outside of work and a few texts.  But now, even though she and Lexa had been over for months, Clarke hated being alone.  She surrounded herself with friends and when that failed she sought out busy places, spots where the dull roar of conversation helped keep her mind from running in circles.  The bartender— handsome, in an angular way— nodded when she gave him her order and slid it across the bar.  

A man sat down next to her, but she didn’t recognize him from her function.  The bartender poured him an old fashioned without his having to ask, and Clarke cast him a surreptitious look.  He was handsome, all dark skin and black hair, with a spray of freckles across his cheeks,  He caught her checking him out and nodded with a half-smile.  “You’re dressed up,” he observed, and Clarke shrugged.

“Had an event,” she said airily.  “And it’s not like you’re in your sweats,” she said, taking in his dark grey suit and maroon tie.

“Had to work,” he replied, friendly enough.  “Was your event the reason this place is crawling in women in ridiculously expensive jewelry?”

“I’ll have you know it was a very successful fundraiser for a domestic violence initiative,” Clarke said with a small smile.  “Clarke,” she said, and he shook her hand.  It was broad and warm, and an inkling of an idea formed in Clarke’s mind.  

“Bellamy.  Tell me, have rich people figured out that they can just write a check without throwing themselves a party first?”

Clarke laughed, because he didn’t sound hostile— just a little annoyed.  “No, but don’t tell them, because then I’d be out of a job.  And you’re one to talk about rich people, considering we’re in the same bar and I happen to know that watch of yours costs half a month’s rent.”

He chuckled a little and sipped his drink.  “When you grow up poor, you never really feel like one of them,” he explained.  “So you’re not from here?”

“I live in DC,” she replied.  “You?”

“Same, actually.  Just here for a work thing.”

“And work is…?”  Clarke stirred her drink with her finger and double checked his hand— no ring, and no indentation or tan line to indicate he’d slipped it off.  She sucked her fingertip clean and he watched her with hooded eyes.    

“Boring,” he replied.  “Law.  I help rich white men stay rich.”

“If you don’t like it, why stay?”

Something flashed in his dark eyes.  “Because it pays well.  Again, poor kid.  That doesn’t really leave you.”  He sounded tense so Clarke recalibrated.

“How long are you here?”  she asked, moving into more neutral territory.

“I leave tomorrow night,” he said, and his shoulders relaxed just a little.  

“Anxious to get home?”

Bellamy looked at her carefully, like he knew she was fishing.  “Not particularly.  No one to go home to.  You?”

_So he's fishing too._ “I leave tomorrow morning,” she said evenly.  She took another sip of her drink and kept her eyes on the bartender rather than Bellamy.

“Right, because that’s what I was asking,” Bellamy grumbled.

“There's no one waiting for me either.”  She said it like it was no big deal, even though she hated the thought of going home even more than she hated the thought of going up to her hotel room alone.  Because  _ home _ felt empty now, like the physical manifestation of the hole in her chest.

Bellamy cocked his head.  “You okay there, princess?” he asked, and his voice was soft with concern.

“It’s nothing.  My ex and I— we used to live together.  She moved out awhile ago.  Nothing major.”  She had no idea why she was telling him this, because this was not the usual way of hotel bar flirtations.  But she was, because for some reason it felt like he’d understand.

Bellamy was silent for a long moment, his blunt finger tracing the edge of his glass.  “Gina left me three months ago,” he said, his eyes on the black lacquered wood in front of them.  “I dunno.  I always thought we were happy enough, but I guess not.”  There was a heaviness to his voice that made her heart twist, because she knew how that felt.  

“To being alone,” she said, desperately trying to regain the flirty thread of their conversation, and raised her glass.  With a rueful smile he clinked his glass with hers and then drained it.  She watched the muscles in his throat working, admiring the line of his jaw and the way his hair curled around his ears.  He signaled to the bartender for another and Clarke did too, crunching on what remained of her ice.

Bellamy’s phone beeped and he smiled wistfully at it.  “My sister made me get snapchat,” he explained, and opened it to show her a picture of a striking young woman in a butterfly filter.  She had the same chin, but her dark hair was straight and her skin lacked his freckles.  

“She’s pretty,” Clarke observed.

“She’s trouble,” he laughed, and soon Clarke discovered that when Bellamy talked about Octavia, he lit up in a way she found irresistible.  They worked through their drinks and Bellamy casually slipped in a mention of a male ex, so Clarke made sure to drop a mention of Finn, and Bellamy grinned in solidarity.  She relaxed a little and so did he, and when the bartender was busy closing out his tab Clarke dropped her hand to Bellamy’s knee.

He stiffened just a little and glanced over at her before dropping his hand below the bar and covering her knee with his own.  “Yeah?” she asked, and he nodded sharply.

“Your room or mine?” he asked, his eyes forward.

“Mine,” she said, because going to an empty room was always the hardest part for her.  Having him leave would be easier.  “I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

Bellamy signed his receipt and slipped off the stool with a look that threatened to ignite her veins.

Clarke caught the bartender’s attention and asked for her bill, signing her name with a flourish.  She paused, wondering if she was really about to go through with this.  The bartender’s hand came to rest in her line of sight and Clarke looked up.  “His name is Bellamy and he’s been staying here all week, just like he said.  He’s got a sister who calls him most nights, no ring, and he hasn’t gone home with anyone else this whole time,” he said.  “For what it’s worth, I think you can trust him.”

Clarke smiled, touched and amused at once.  “And who says I can trust you?”

He grinned.  “Touché,” he said, and saluted.

Clarke made her way from the bar across the lobby.  Her heels clicked on the marble floor and Bellamy looked up, his eyes slowly traveling up and down her body.  The elevator to his left chimed softly and the doors slid open.  It was empty, maroon carpet and mirrored walls, and Clarke hit the button for floor seventeen.

The second the doors closed he was kissing her, his mouth hot against hers.  He tasted like bourbon and he walked her back to press her against the wall.  Clarke kissed him back hard, their teeth clacking and their tongues meeting almost frantically, her fingers clawing at his jacket and eventually winding up in his hair.  It was soft and thick, and he pressed his knee between her legs, giving her something to grind down on when his mouth traveled to her ear.  His left hand skimmed up her thigh to the place where the slit on her dress began.  His hands were gentle but firm and her lungs were tight, her need for him overwhelming her need for oxygen.  He nudged her dress aside and ran his fingertip down the line of her lower lips, her panties already damp from his touch.

It felt good, having his hands roaming her body.  It made her feel alive and grounded at the same time.  She arched against him and his mouth met hers again, and she could have sworn he was kissing her as hungrily and needily as she was kissing him.

They almost missed the elevator doors opening, but Bellamy shot his hand out just as they started to close.  The doors bounced open and Clarke looked down, fishing in her purse for the keycard and hoping no one in the hall noticed her mussed hair and smeared lipstick.  She risked a glance at him and he looked as wrecked as she did, his lips swollen and his eyes a little bit dazed.

The moment the door shut behind them they were kissing again, and Bellamy tangled his hand in her hair to tug her head back and bare her neck.  Clarke moaned when his teeth scraped against her pulse point, and he stopped.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his breaths coming quickly.

“I did invite you up here to fuck me, yes,” she said with a wry laugh.

“No, I mean...this,” he said, and he tugged her hair again.  Not hard— barely enough to move her head— but something deep inside of her purred.

“Yes,” she breathed and crashed into him, needing him to touch her more.  His hands burned into her skin and she started peeling away his clothes, her lips searching for bare skin to taste.

Bellamy was just as impatient in undressing her.  He unzipped the side of her dress but his hands on her waist kept it from falling down, his mouth trailing across the tops of her breasts.  He pushed aside the cup of her bra and bent down, taking her nipple in his mouth.  His tongue teased her, just light enough to drive her wild.  He let go of the filmy material of her dress and she stepped out of it, twisting her hands behind her back to unclasp her bra.

He was bared to his waist, his skin smooth under her nails, and Bellamy gave her a gentle shove towards the bed.  Clarke fell back parallel to the pillows and watched with a smile as he crawled over her.  His eyes were dark, his pupils blown, and she couldn’t help but trace his cheekbone with her finger before arching up to kiss him.  

Kissing Bellamy was addictive.  It made her muscles liquify and stirred the flames inside of her to new heights.  His tongue moved in perfect concert with her own, and she actually whined a little when he dragged his mouth down her throat, because she wanted him to kiss her like that some more--possibly forever.

He smirked a little and palmed her breast, just roughly enough to send a surge of wetness between her thighs.  Clarke was making all kinds of needy noises now, and Bellamy nipping at her hipbone didn’t help matters.  He curled a finger around the waistband of the dark red scrap of lace she wore and dragged them down, his eyes never leaving hers.  A flush was spreading down her neck and she reached up to grab the side of the mattress to anchor herself.  Bellamy knelt on the floor and arranged her legs over the edge, one draped across his shoulder and the other pinned down by his broad hand.  “Ready, princess?” he asked, and she nodded frantically.  Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip and at the first brush of his tongue her back bowed from the bed.

It was torture.  Pure, exquisite torture.  Bellamy would touch her just right, bring her right to the edge, and then just as she was about to let go he’d back off.  He kept switching from purposeful, focused licks right on her clit and long, slow ones that tasted her entire center.  Heat kept building in her core, powerful and explosive, and she felt like a fuse wire that was taking too long to burn.  She curled her fingers in his hair and tried to direct him but all that got her was a dark chuckle and the stubble on his chin rasping against her inner thigh as he nuzzled her there.

Clarke groaned and felt, rather than saw, his answering grin.  But then Bellamy took pity on her and sealed his lips around her clit, flickering it with his tongue and easing his finger inside of her until everything happened at once.  Her walls clenched down on his finger and her muscles came unspooled, going from tense with anticipation to a shuddery, grateful release.  Her heel dug into his spine and then relaxed, and she opened her eyes to find him kissing his way back up her body.

She hauled him up and kissed him, licking her own arousal from his lips and chin.  He was the one to moan this time, and when he pulled back and looked at her, something changed.  Clarke wanted him to look at her like that forever, amazed and wrecked at once.  She wanted to wrap her arms around him and pull him inside of her, have him fuck her slowly while she let his gaze devour her completely.  She wanted to push him onto his back and take him in her mouth until he was just as gone as she was, an incoherent jumble of want.  She wanted to fall asleep in his arms, see him smile softly at her in the morning light before either of them were really awake. 

But none of that was what you did with someone you picked up in a hotel bar, so Clarke pulled her mind away from those thoughts even though it was like running through molasses.  She reached down and undid his belt and button, reaching inside his pants to grasp his hard cock through his boxer briefs.  He felt heavy in her hand and Bellamy closed his eyes to drop his head to her shoulder.  His breath fanned against her skin and she pressed a sloppy kiss to his temple.  “Condoms are in the top zipper of my suitcase,” she said, and he nodded against her.

It seemed to take great effort for him to pull away from her, but he did.  He found the condom and shucked his pants, and her mouth went a little dry at the sight of his dick, long and hard and perfect.  But when she looked back at his face and saw his smile, that stupid part inside of her— the part that wanted to be loved, not just craved— leapt a little.  

She needed to get control of herself, so Clarke rolled over to her hands and knees and tossed Bellamy a challenging look over her shoulder.  His eyes widened and he positioned himself behind her.  “Fuck me,” she ordered, surprised by how rough her own voice was.  “Fuck me hard.”

He ran his hand down her spine and then swatted her ass playfully.  “Okay?” he asked, and again she nodded.

That was all he needed.  He thrust inside of her in one motion, his hand wrapping around her hair and tugging.  Clarke keened and pushed back against him, her elbows locked to brace herself against his powerful strokes.  He filled her perfectly, every single inch of his cock pressing against her walls in a way that made her see stars.  He pulled her hair again, the roots straining at her scalp, and Clarke felt herself get even wetter.  His other hand traveled across her back to settle at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, pulling her back whenever he pushed deeper inside of her.

It was almost too much, and Clarke collapsed to her elbows, her forehead pressing into the mattress to muffle her moans.  Her thighs slapped against his, the hair on his legs scratchy against her soft skin.  He kept going, pushing in and drawing almost all the way back out, each thrust sending sparks through her nerve endings.  She brought her hand back to touch her clit but Bellamy batted it away.  “Let me,” he said, and it almost sounded like he was begging, but she was too far gone to know for sure.  His fingers drew rough circles around her clit and he sped up his strokes.  Clarke was trembling now, each thrust ratcheting her need higher.  The world narrowed and then erupted into a kaleidoscope of sensations, wave after wave of pleasure roaring through her body.

“Fuck,” Bellamy growled behind her and he stilled his movements for just a few seconds, letting her ride it out.  But then he started thrusting again, the careful precise strokes becoming sloppier, and when he came he curved himself over her back, his teeth nipping at her shoulder while she felt him pulse deep inside her core.

Bellamy grasped the base of the condom and pulled out and she collapsed, boneless and breathless on the mattress.  She heard him wrap it in a tissue and throw it away, and then he was curling up against her back, his knuckle tracing the bumps of her spine.  Clarke rolled to her side and pulled his arm around her, nestling her back to his chest.  Bellamy buried his face in her hair and she could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

It had slowed to a steady, even beat by the time Bellamy spoke.  “I suppose this is when I say I should leave,” he said, and Clarke rolled to her back.  He shifted above her and brushed her hair back with his palm, his smile something akin to tender.

Clarke knew what she was supposed to say here.  She knew what this was, and she knew the steps to this dance.  But she placed her hand on his jaw and coaxed him down for a gentle kiss.  “That’s what you’re supposed to say now, yes,” she said, and his eyes flickered across her face, searching.  She swallowed and licked her lips.  “Stay with me anyway?”

Bellamy smiled gradually, like watercolor spreading across paper.  “I’d like that,” he said.  He kissed her forehead and laid back down so she could rest her head on the soft spot between his shoulder and chest.

And for the first time in months, Clarke didn’t feel alone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> From an anon prompt for Clarke to say "Will you stay with me anyway?" to Bellamy.


End file.
